Orpheus and Prometheus
by Spattered Ink
Summary: "Do what you have promised me." This is a story about how two men manage life, death, love, and hate, and how adding a woman never makes things easier. Caliban/OC Frankenstein/OC


**Orpheus and Prometheus**

**by Spattered Ink**

"Do what you have promised me." It was a dark whisper in the night that haunted Victor Frankenstein's every moment. When he had set out to draw life from death he had not meant to create a ghost. Only instead of howling in the wind to scare superstitious old women, his ghost followed him with bloody footsteps and hell-bright eyes. "Demon," it called him. Creator and Demon, the two sides of any great creation story. But he had allowed his creation too much power – he had launched into his work with a passionate fury that never stopped to consider the consequences. The almighty created the world as one great experiment, where the testing variable was mankind's folly. Well, Victor wondered how his folly ranked in the history of humanity. Was God punishing him for playing at that which only He could attain? Or did God have nothing to do with it. Was it Victor's own pursuit of victory, of conquest over death that led him to create this mockery of life? Did the result produced mirror the desires of the producer? He did not know. '_Better,' _he had told himself after the birth, '_I'll do better next time_.' But there is no next time – creation cannot be undone. And now it was too late.

The initial idea had come to him at a very young age. He had been too young and ignorant at the time, but he knew that if he worked hard and did well at his studies he would one day grow wise enough to challenge Death himself. As a child he had fancied himself a modern day Orpheus, winning his mother back from beyond the veil through talent and drive. The years had taught him Death was not interested in pretty words and did not relinquish life so easily. One must steal life from Death, and Victor had spent his whole life becoming a master thief. It was too late for his mother, but just the beginning for mankind. His first tentative forays into the shadow realms would be followed by bolder, more perfect attempts until mankind stood all powerful, immortal as gods.

After all, life was not so very complicated. What happened from one breath to the next? Nothing but electrical impulses telling a biological machine what to do with the air. The only question was as to the charge and duration of the initial burst. After that, biology was wonderfully self-sustaining. But his new man would not be just any street vagrant, no. The confusion of sexual reproduction, based entirely on chance and a set of subjective variables determined by the parents was inadequate. His creation would show intelligent design. While the machine can sustain itself and reproduce it does so without deliberation or forethought. Parents select each other based on whim and the offspring is a random consequence, like a finger-painted attempt at Rembrandt's masterpiece.

It was with this in mind that Frankenstein selected his ingredients. First, he needed a body strong enough to withstand the initial charge. A visit to the local mortuary produced a man recently dead; tall, fleshy, but with a muscular build and the potential for great force. He was told by the mortician that this man had died of a brain complication in his prime – obviously that would have to be replaced. The hair that covered the corpse's head was coal-black, while the skin was pale and waxy. That was a pity; he would have preferred a darker shade from a southern country – foreign blood resisted weak genes and the alabaster white cheek smacked of death.

But that was nothing compared to the challenge of finding an acceptable brain. He had hoped he might be able to use the brain of one of the most learned professors at his university – the man had died towards the end of his education but Victor had been one of his favorites. His creation, then, would be a credit to his mentor. His new man would have the body of a mountain and the mind of a sage, the perfect general to lead mankind into the next century.

Unfortunately, when he exhumed the body he discovered that his professor had been too long in the damp, thick ground. Maggots had already begun to feast on the remains, and the brain was reduced to a greyish soup of pungent rot. For a moment all hope was lost – there would be no way to give life to his creation without a suitable brain, and fresh human brains were notoriously difficult to come by. Besides, Victor's funds were starting to dip again and he could not afford the mortician's silence a second time.

It was with such low spirits that he walked back to civilization and slunk into the first watering hole he could find. It was a shady pace, with misshapen characters that moved more like feral beasts than men. There was little business that evening, and though two men who looked like criminals were arguing at the bar he had ample space to avoid them from his table. So intent was he on nursing his pint and broken dreams, he did not even notice when a fight broke out. It was only when one of the brawlers knocked him off his chair that he even perceived knives had been pulled, and that the fight had now escalated beyond repair. One well-placed slash and a spurt of blood later and it was all over, the victor vanishing before either Victor or the landlord had time to note where he went.

For a man with a business and a reputation, the landlord seemed remarkably unconcerned as he told Victor to leave, promising dire retribution should "them damn coppers" find out what had transpired. Quietly, Victor acquiesced but inside his heart was pounding. What a fortuitous turn of events! Softly, and ever so silently he crept to a nearby alley. He watched as the landlord turned the sign on the door from "open" to "closed." An hour later the landlord emerged, carrying a large sack and glancing over his shoulder as he turned down a side alley. '_That must be the body_,' Victor mused. Unconsciously, his hands clenched in the folds of his coat as he hastened to follow. Oh, cruel tease to be so close yet so far! When the landlord turned down the path to the canal Victor's blood froze in his veins. The murky water of the canal would ruin the brain unless rescued immediately, he was sure of it. Besides, if he had to go in after the body it would be that much more difficult to return to his lab. He would have to cut the head from the body in the water - and Londoners had a way of frowning on soaking wet strangers walking through town carrying bloody severed heads.

Fortunately it looked like that wouldn't be necessary. The landlord only carried the body a few blocks before setting it down abruptly. It seemed as long as the corpse was not found near his pub he was indifferent to its whereabouts. That suited Victor just fine. As soon as the landlord was out of sight he knelt next to the sack and opened it up. The first thing he noticed was the blood. For some reason the landlord had cut the body to pieces, and Victor was reminded of a recent news article about savaged men and women. He made quick work of the head, and taking a leaf out of the landlord's book decided to scatter the rest of the bag's contents out in the alley as though an animal had attacked.

Back in his lab he finally dared to breathe. The adrenaline of the hunt was still pumping through his veins, and his hands shook with the euphoria coursing through him. This was it! He had every ingredient needed to finally begin work!

It was slow going at first. Transplanting the brain took a lot more work that he had originally anticipated. Eventually he had to peel the skin back from the cheek and insert it manually, twisting his wrist inside the skull to find the correct angle. The patches of skin that couldn't be saved had to be replaced with skin from the severed head. Then the eyes began to fail, as they had been in formaldehyde too long and were beginning to adopt a faded yellow color instead of their original brown. A quick incision to the torso revealed that all other organs were in perfect working order and eventually everything was sewed back in place. With barely-contained enthusiasm Frankenstein began preparing for the initial spark. If life was merely energy he could supply that. But how much? Something strong, sudden perhaps, like electrocution but in reverse.

And then, the flip was switched. For half a second Victor worried he might have failed. Then his beautiful, magnificent creation drew its first breath…and opened its eyes…and screamed!

Oh, the screaming was terrible! Such an agonizing, soul-shredding sound! Victor knew he could not stay there any longer to hear it. What a terrible, horrible mistake! What could have possessed him to take his obsession to these lengths? Was not birthing pain Eve's punishment for defying the Almighty? And what of the pain of the child? The screams of this….monster were a thousand times worse. Instead of bringing life he had brought a thousand deaths, all condensed into the growing hate in those demonic eyes. The spark of life animating their unnatural depths swept over Victor as a physical chill, and he turned himself away, shuddering. This only incensed the monster more, and it stretched out its hand for Victor's throat in an echo of Death's rage. Terror drew over him, and without another word he fled.

If he could take it all back now, he would. He would renounce everything he ever was for the chance to turn his former self away from this path. For instead of showing his children the wonders of Eden Victor found himself hunted and cursed by a malevolent Cain. "Do what you have promised me," that low voice mocked, and Victor felt himself a slave to its murderous vengeance. He had no choice but to acquiesce, though with every step he could almost hear the dragging iron chains of guilt and regret.

He would have to keep his promise – there was no other recourse – even if in doing so he damned himself to Hell.


End file.
